


the broken, pale, lost days

by Official_Biscuit_Moron



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, War, corpse-eating devil, i'm sorry this is very emo, pre-shoka sonjuku, pre-yorozuya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25133371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Official_Biscuit_Moron/pseuds/Official_Biscuit_Moron
Summary: I am the demon, the demon, the devil’s child, and that is what I know. The sword swung over my shoulder is heavy and shining. My hair flows long over my eyes, the clouds obscure the sky and the moon – they sit heavily on everything below, weigh heavily on my back and my eyelids. The moonlight shows me where to walk and where I can sit and sleep.Everything is so quiet.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	the broken, pale, lost days

I am the demon, the demon, the devil’s child, and that is what I know. The sword swung over my shoulder is heavy and shining. My hair flows long over my eyes, the clouds obscure the sky and the moon – they sit heavily on everything below, weigh heavily on my back and my eyelids. The moonlight shows me where to walk and where I can sit and sleep.

Everything is so quiet.

How many days has it been since I’ve seen someone moving? I’m thankful, maybe, for the silence. Maybe for the time. No thanks for the dirt, or the blood, or the rotten smell! My nose itches. My feet are sore and bare.

Rice balls and clothes and dried up meat, taken quietly from the still men on the ground, are my things. I like the rice balls, and even the dark yukata that hangs loosely from my skinny shoulders. Too skinny. How old am I? The men on the ground must be a hundred years, a hundred years or more. (Later, I wonder why, as I turn 15, picking up my rueful sword, everyone my age is either on a field so much like this one or heading there.) I wish I were strong, like they are. Though they rot and decay, I see, on some, their powerful arms and bright swords and straight, dark hair. Their eyes are usually deep brown. Some have broad, long noses. Others bear proudly colors dimmed with wear. But they all have the same hair. Its texture is rough from dirt and fine. Sometimes it rises gently with the breeze, before lowering again to its owner’s neck. My hair is not straight or dark. Those who come upon this field sowed with men point and stare, and whisper, all aloud, of the demon. Its locks turn and twist so grotesquely. Look at their pale, sickly light. A crooked soul. Is not white of death?

They say it eats the men on the ground.

He lies among them every night, but he eats them. They are his only companions, but he eats them. They give him rice balls and clothes and dried up meat, but he eats them. They say it so often, I wonder if it will not become true.

My favorite thing is the bright, bright sword I took from a man at the top of the pile. Everything here is dull, and red, and stained with dirt. I rub the sword with spit and my dark yukata until it gives off a dull shine, and I forget about the moon when I see it shimmer. It gives something for me to do, when I am not eating and walking and sleeping and running and hiding. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, sometimes, in the metal, but then I turn it sharply away. I like the blinding white no more than those strangers do.

But eventually I see the white isn’t even the worst part – one day, I peek, little by little, into the beautiful sword and I don’t see anything beautiful in return. It is cruel. I see eyes the same color as the corpses around me. They are red. They are so red. My bloody red heart thumps strangely in my ribs and I feel the sword rattle tauntingly in my hands. My bloody red eyes sting and blur and I can’t close them, they are too wide, and my yukata too many sizes too big chokes me and my heart beats and beats and beats and I think I’m going to die. _This_ is where I die.

I put the sword down, for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> it's tiny sad gintoki hours. thanks for reading
> 
> (hiya! btw, here's a petition to sign to support blm: https://www.change.org/p/gregg-abbott-justice-for-jennifer-jeffley?utm_content=cl_sharecopy_11042906_en-US%3Av5&recruiter=319353471&recruited_by_id=129af720-1490-11e5-9c6e-8515d331dad3&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf_combo_share_initial)


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